Latest Novel Release!

My latest novel called Bone Digger has just been released!

Johnny Zen and his girlfriend Jessica Sellars are back with another adventure when they are asked by a close friend to look into the cold case murder of a college student. For fourteen years the murder of Hannah McGuire has gone unsolved. Hannah was a student at T.U. in Tulsa, Oklahoma when she was found brutally stabbed to death just off campus.

What happened to Hannah McGuire and who would want her dead? From the viciousness of the crime scene it was obvious this was no random act of       violence, she was stabbed more than seventeen times in the head and upper torso. Someone wanted to make sure Hannah was dead.

At 9:02 p.m. Hannah emailed a friend to say she was going out to return some research materials she had borrowed from someone for a thesis about           Terrorism - Osama bin Laden - and the CIA connection. She was last seen walking alone across campus by several witnesses. Who was the mysterious person she was going to meet? Did she arrive at her destination? When her body was discovered, no research papers or copy of her thesis was found. Had she uncovered something in her research that ultimately got her killed?

The main suspect at the time was Hannah’s own professor and thesis advisor. But almost as quickly as he became the number one suspect, the police suddenly dropped their investigation of him and no one else ever seemed to come onto their radar.

Now fourteen years later, Johnny Zen and Jessica Sellars start digging into the bones of the stone cold case. There are those who will stop at nothing to      prevent them from revealing secrets that will change everything we’ve been led to believe about 9/11.

In the quiet recesses of Johnny's mind, he must ask himself, - What if it's true?

 

You can order it through at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/Jim_Jordan

 

Click on the books to go to my Lulu Storefront

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(Spoken Work Poetry)

What are we doing?...What have we become?

We're just gang banging,
Lampin' - Hanging out under a street light on gangsta turf
waitin' for a Ghetto Star - our drug dealer to drop some elbow -
a pound of drugs.

We got a biscuit - a gat - a puppy - a pound - a nine -
That's a gun to a gangsta - and that's all fine.

We are on point - ready to fight -
targeting someone - or killing a rival.

We ain't scared a-no hotel or jail
hell doin' a nickle or five years in prison? - Ain't no big thang.

That kid on the corner or walkin' down the middle of the street?-
He done jumped in, he's already taken his initiation beating.

He ain't no wangsta - a wannabe gangsta,
He's a Picasso, he's good with a knife
and he won't hesitate to do some serious slashing -
leaving another brother lying in the street
with a buck fifty - that's a hundred and fifty stitches.

What are we doing?...What have we become?

Long ago we declared war on drugs,
It is a war we are losing.
Illegal drugs are flooding into America
like never before.
It's nothing personal - It's just business.

We are finally giving in and legalizing some drugs
for "Medical Reasons" they want you to believe.
If you can't beat 'em - join 'em -
and tax them for it too.

We are overtaxed - underpaid - many of us living in poverty
or at the very least, barely getting by.
And all the while, the rich get richer and the poor get poorer.
We are sick and tired of seeing people
standing on street corners with signs
begging for money.

We are sick and tired of not being able to afford health coverage.
We are sick and tired of the federal government
meddling in what little coverage we do have.

We are sick and tired of hearing politicians running for office
promising to go to Washington and fight big government
because they think that's what we want to hear.
We are sick and tired of our government fighting among itself.
We are sick and tired of having politicians lying to us.

We are sick and tired of being sick and tired.

Add to that the suppression of women's health rights.

If a group of women speaks out against it,
they are harassed, bullied and stalked for daring to do so,
insults and even death threats occur.

We want to dictate who someone should be allowed to love and to marry.
We use our religion to base our judgement
of the L.G.B.T. American citizen.
We thump our Bible, while using it to justify our ignorance.

What are we doing? ..... What have we become?

We holler about our "god-given right" to bear arms,
while in the local shopping centers, armed citizens mill about.
We dine in restaurants with rifles on our back.
We hand out leaflets to motorists.
We get into arguments defending those rights.

We feel we have to arm ourselves.
We have to have campus police.
We have to arm our teachers in order to thwart anyone -
and not just terrorists - but the ordinary American citizen -
who finally snaps from all the craziness
and would massacre our schoolchildren.

What are we doing? ... What have we become?

We are rioting in the streets.
We are at war with one another.
Today - we are looting and destroying businesses
that yesterday we supported,
all in the name of justice.
We are angry and we have been pushed to our limit.

There are weapons of war on U.S. city streets.
There is something gut-wrenching about the photos we see
of police officers with powerful military-style guns
from the roof of armored military-style vehicles.
We see those officers pointing these weapons
at unarmed civilians.

Why do police need roof-mounted machine guns
on armored vehicles? - weapons built to fight a faraway war.
Why are they now turned homeward?

The Department of Homeland Security
encouraged the militarization of police
through federal funds for "terrorism prevention"
they want us to believe.

The armored vehicles, assault weapons and body armor
borne by the police in our streets
are the fruit of turning police into soldiers.

It's not that individual police officers are bad people,
it's that shift in the American culture of policing
that encourages officers to think of the people they serve
as enemies.

This is not some nameless middle-eastern country
torn apart by strife, this is the United States of America
and we have to ask ourselves...

What are we doing? .... What have we become?

~ Jim Jordan

More than 20 unpublished poems by the late Nobel laureate Pablo Neruda, most of them taking up romantic themes, have been discovered in boxes of his papers in Chile and will be published in Latin America and Spain in 2014 and 2015, according to reports from Spain.

Officials at the Pablo Neruda Foundation in Chile made the initial find, which was announced Wednesday by the Barcelona-based publisher Seix Barral. The poems are said to date from the 1950s and '60s, when Neruda wrote many of his most beloved works, including "The Captain's Verses," and "100 Love Sonnets."

The only other unpublished works of Neruda to appear after his death were a 1980 collection of poems written during his youth and a 1996 collection of adolescent poems titled "Cuadernos de Temuco" (Temuco Notebooks).

Legendary Poet / Author Maya Angelou Dies

(CNN) -- Maya Angelou, a renowned poet, novelist and actress whose work defied description under a simple label, has died, her publicist, Helen Brann, said Thursday.

She died at her home in Winston-Salem, N.C., Brann said.

A professor, singer and dancer, among other things, Angelou's work spans different professions. She spent her early years studying dance and drama in San Francisco, California.
After dropping out at age 14, she become the city's first African-American female cable car conductor.
Angelou later returned to high school to finish her diploma and gave birth to her son a few weeks after graduation. While the 17-year-old single mother waited tables to support her son, she acquired a passion for music and dance. She toured Europe in the mid-1950s with "Porgy and Bess," an opera production. In 1957, she recorded her first album, "Calypso Lady."

In 1958, Angelou become a part of the Harlem Writers Guild in New York and also played a queen in "The Blacks," an off-Broadway production by French dramatist Jean Genet.
Affectionately referred to as Dr. Angelou, the professor never went to college. She has more than 30 honorary degrees and taught American studies for years at Wake Forest University in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

"I created myself," she has said. "I have taught myself so much."

Angelou was born on April 4, 1928, in St. Louis, Missouri. She grew up between St. Louis and the then-racially-segregated Stamps, Arkansas.

The famous poet got into writing after a childhood tragedy that stunned her into silence for almost a decade. When she was 7, her mother's boyfriend raped her. He was later beaten to death by a mob after she testified against him.

"My 7-and-a-half-year-old logic deduced that my voice had killed him, so I stopped speaking for almost six years," she said.

From the silence, a louder voice was born.

Her list of friends is as impressive as her illustrious career. Talk show queen Oprah Winfrey referred to her as "sister friend." She counted Martin Luther King Jr., with whom she worked during the Civil Rights movement, among her friends. King was assassinated on her birthday.

Angelou spoke at least six languages, and worked as a newspaper editor in Egypt and Ghana. During that time, she wrote "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings," launching the first in a series of autobiographical books.

"I want to write so well that a person is 30 or 40 pages in a book of mine ... before she realizes she's reading," she said.

Angelou was also one of the first black women film directors. Her work on Broadway has been nominated for Tony Awards.

Before making it big, the 6-foot-tall wordsmith also worked as a cook and sang with a traveling road show. "Look where we've all come from ... coming out of darkness, moving toward the light," she has said. "It is a long journey, but a sweet one, bittersweet."

The Fight Before Christmas

I wrote this for the December party of the Cherry Street Poets and read it to the group. Since the response was so good
I decided to post it here. Share it if you like.



The Fight Before Christmas

‘Twas the fight before Christmas
Black Friday it’s called
It’s the day after Thanksgiving
and oh what a brawl

The shoppers are lined
outside the stores by the mile
the first couple of days
they’re all laughter and smiles

But the closer it gets
to Six Friday morn,
the less festive things are
with temperaments worn.

At first people were friendly
to other people in line
they shared the warmth of their tents
and perhaps a bottle of wine.

But early that morn
as the sun started to rise
their thoughts switched from camaraderie
to obtaining their prize.


The blankets and the tents
were folded and crammed
beneath their arms –perhaps weapons
when the pushing began

Two minutes ‘till six
the crowd’s on their feet
and the shuffling begins
toward the doors from the street

Pressed now against the glass
through the doors they can see
the employee approach
in his hand - was the key.

With a turn of the key
and a click of the lock
the moment has come
it’s now six o’clock!

As the doors swing open
and the crowd pushes in
the fight before Christmas
is about to begin.


There’s screaming and shouting
and pushing as they run
some trip and are trampled
as if this is fun!

There’s snatching and grabbing
and tugging at stuff
what was fun in the beginning
is now turning rough!

Those who were friendly outside
are friendly no more
they’re now locked in a battle
right there in the store!

Pandemonium arises
as store clerks stand by
Black Friday is here
and the fists start to fly!

These are the people
who the day just before
gave thanks for what they have…
but now wanted more.


Black Friday was here
and all through the city
We welcome the season
but oh what a pity.

Twas the fight before Christmas
and what began as a brawl
will end them wishing….
Merry Christmas to all!


~ Jim Jordan

At last night's meeting of the Cherry Street Poets, our writing theme was to come up with a poem about "Harvest, or Gathering, A cornucopia of poetry" in honor of November Fall and Thanksgiving Holiday. I must say for some reason, I had trouble with this assignment. Try as I might I could not come up with a clever poem.
Then....I went online for some examples and among them I found the following poem by Billy Collins and decided to share it with the group. As you'll see by the poem following Billy's, I did manage to come up with something after all.
First, I present to you here, Billy Collin's poem titled "Thanksgiving Morning".



Thanksgiving Morning
by Billy Collins

The crossed multiple blades of the blender
set out to dry on a counter.
The corkscrew unsheathed and ready
to enter whatever cannot resist its twisting.
The carving knife waiting alongside
the sharpener for its abrasive touch,
The blue box of matches, the white candles.
The branch of dry leaves brought in
Along with vines clustered with red and yellow berries,
All of which points to the anonymous turkey,
soon to be trussed with string
but now soaking on the cold porch
in a bucket of salted ice water,
in brine, as they like to say this time of year.
And we must not overlook the oven,
radiating in a corner of the kitchen
set at first at 500 degrees
then lowered almost mercifully to 350,
still hot enough to lift the bird
into the condition of sacrificial edibility,
yet short of what would incinerate a book,
the oven that swallowed the witch and Sylvia Plath
and now the oven of our pleasure,
our forks and glasses blindly raised.



Okay, here's mine.



A CORNUCOPIA OF NOTHING
by Jim Jordan

We were challenged –as it were
to write a poem of Harvest,
a Gathering of leaves of family traditions,
or whatever it is that is gathered this time of year.
We were to write a cornucopia of rhyme,
or a cacophony of words whether they rhymed or not.
Even a song about the changing of the season would do.
With the gauntlet thrown down,
I “Gathered” my pen’s – the ones I most often use to write my verse,
the ones who’s ink flows smoothly and quickly and delight the page with my genius.
I took out sheets of white paper – 24 lb. with brightness of standard 98 –
it reminded me of snow
unblemished by footprints.
I sat in my comfortable overstuffed chair,
next to the lamp with the 60 watt bulb,
3 short clicks to get the light just right.
I took a sip from my glass of Merlot,
making sure to return the glass to the coaster on the side table,
even though it was a stemmed glass and wouldn’t have mattered.
I took an in-breath of air through my nose
and released it gently between my slightly parted lips.
With pen in hand I sat staring at the blank page……NOTHING!
Ten minutes passed…NOTHING!…..20 minutes…..NOTHING!
THIRTY MINUTES…..Panic set in!

A DIFFERENT PEN PERHAPS!....NOTHING….I DOODLED!....
I WENT THROUGH SEVERAL WHITE SHEETS
OF 98 LB. – 24 BRIGHTNESS OR WAS IT 24 LB. – 98 BRIGHTNESS!!!
AT THAT POINT….IT DIDN’T MATTER!!! I STILL HAD….NOTHING!
I ROSE FROM MY COMFORTABLE CHAIR AND PACED!....NOTHING!
I DRANK A SECOND GLASS OF WINE….NOTHING!.....A THIRD!!....A FORTH!!
NOTHING…NOTHING…NOTHING STILL!!!
BEADS OF SWEAT WERE ROLLING DOWN MY FOREHEAD
MY HANDS WERE TREMBLING
MY LEGS FELT LIKE RUBBER……….ok….part of that may have been the wine.
At last the clock was chiming midnight….I felt defeated…exhausted…a little hung over already.
I went over to the computer….got online…and downloaded a Billy Collins poem titled
“Thanksgiving Morning.”
That…..and Nothing more.

The Tulsa based poetry group, Cherry Street Poets meet the first Monday of every month at the Phonix 1302 E. 6th St, in the "Library Room".
November's meeting is November 4th at 7:00 p.m.

Each month we have a "theme" to write about. November will be "A Cornucopia of Poems" of Harvest, Gathering and Sharing along the lines of the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday.

Members are asked to write, or bring a poem or two with those themes in mind.

For new members or those thinking of joining, we welcome you! We are a very informal group and simply love getting together once a month to share our love of poetry. Please spread the word about us and join us at the next meeting.

Hope to see you there,

~ Jim

Writing Critique Groups

With the right critique group you can learn exponentially, shaving years off the learning curve. Not only do you get some quick and honest feedback on what you’ve written, but the act of critiquing someone else’s manuscript can teach you a great deal about what works and what doesn’t.

As writers, we are generally voracious readers as well. (If you’re not…You should be!) You may not realize it, but all of the reading you have done in your life has honed your instincts about other people’s writing. You can spot it immediately when something isn’t working. It feels awkward or off somehow and it interrupts your involvement in the story, jolting you back to your armchair or wherever you happen to be reading.

It takes some skill and effort to learn to step back from your own writing and ask yourself why something doesn’t work. A critique done by a sympathetic friend and/or writer can more quickly flag the problem and that act alone will teach you a great deal.

Face-to-Face or On-line Groups

I’m sure everyone you talk to will have a different preference as to whether it is best to join an on-line group or participate in an actual physical group that meets regularly. I think there are advantages and disadvantages to both.


Face-to-Face Group

Advantages

• Meet local writers. Make friends with similar interests with whom you informally share experiences in the real world. In this day of cyberspace, it is nice to get away from the computer and actually exchange ideas with some real people.

• Get first hand reactions and instant feedback from those reading your work. You can actually watch the audience react to your story—do they fidget at the bottom of the third page; are they deeply engrossed during the fight scene? You can only get these insights from reading to a group.

• Meetings are a great place to discuss problems you are having with your manuscript or raise writing issues in general.

• You usually experience a wide variety of styles and genres. Face-to-face groups are usually less specialized because there simply aren’t enough writers of any one genre to make a group.


Disadvantages

• Criticism can be harder to take face-to-face. It is difficult to hear criticism of your work and it is hard to fight the urge to argue. It’s sort of like introducing your child to an acquaintance and having them comment immediately on what large ears your child has, or them making fun of your child’s lisp.

• The lack of specialization can be a problem if you need specific input from other writers who understand the genre. (Poetry is a good example.)

• There is little choice as you are limited by the caliber of writers in the area or what type of group is available.

• A personality conflict is harder to deal with face-to-face. Comments can seem a lot more personal.

• Meetings are scheduled events and not pliable to your own timetable.

• Depending on how the meetings are run, you receive oral feedback immediately following your reading with no chance for the reader to reconsider their critique.

• As there might only be time for one or two people to read at a meeting, you could go a couple of months between readings of your own work.


On-Line Groups

Advantages

• Communicate with writers from all over the world. You can make some lasting friendships with writers from your on-line critique group. Then one day you can travel to meet with established friends.
• On-line groups can be more specialized, gearing themselves to a particular genre or target audience.
• You can fit the critique work into your own schedule, doing it when you have time to concentrate on it. And you get a thorough, detailed written critique because the other person is not as rushed.
• You may get more honest feedback in an on-line environment as the relationship is comfortably distant. Your critique partner is reacting only to your writing, not your looks or your personality.
• You can come and go through several groups while choosing the one that works best for you.

Disadvantages

• You don’t really get to know all the people in your group and there is always some fear of others stealing your work —usually an unfounded fear of beginning writers—but possible none the less.
• You have to wait for your critiques, sometimes for a week or more and if someone is totally off base or misreads your story, there is no opportunity to correct them so the critique may not be as valuable as it could be.
• You sometimes get so involved with your career online that you do most of your socializing on the computer with someone on the other side of the globe. It is easy to become recluse if this is the only socializing you do. You have to remind yourself to get out and talk to real people once in a while


Choosing the Right Group

While the right critique group can advance your writing in giant leaps, the wrong group can severely damage your tender confidence. So how do you choose a group?
There are a number of questions you can ask before you begin. Assess your comfort with the answers before committing to join.

• If it is a face-to-face group, how often do they meet? How long are meetings? How are critiques handled at meetings?

• Do you submit manuscripts ahead of time so that the other members have a chance to review them at their leisure? Or do you only critique what is read / heard during the meeting? The problem I have with hearing someone read from their manuscript, rather than everyone actually reading it, is one may not be good at reading out loud and their work could inadvertently be judged on what others “heard” rather than how it reads.

• How many people are in the group? Are they beginners, experienced or both?

• Does everyone critique all submissions? How long do you have to critique a submission and how many per week are you required to critique?

• How often are you required to submit something and what word length is expected?

• Personally I would prefer to exchange manuscripts at the meetings and turn in a review or critique at the next meeting. That way you have a chance to read it carefully perhaps more than once and make calculated remarks rather than “off the cuff” after hearing it read at the meeting and immediately critiquing.

Once you find a group that fits into your schedule, try it out. People come and go in groups all the time. Sometimes, you hit on a good combination of people and you stay in one group for months or even years. Other times, there is someone in the group that you clash with or the group is at a different level than you are (either way too advanced, or way too beginner for you).
When that happens, just move on to another group.
Eventually, you’ll find one that works. You may find, that you pick up a couple of friends from each group who you keep in touch with and occasionally (or more often) exchange manuscripts on a more informal basis.
As always, Good luck with your writing and keep doing it! You’ll only get better.

~ J.

Sue Grafton is one of my favorite authors and I am such a huge fan of the Kinsey Milhone series, I can't tell you how much I look forward to reading her latest in the Alphabet series, "W is for Wasted".
As a fellow author myself, I know the importance of having a great opening line. It must capture the reader immediately. Sue Grafton certainly achieves this with the following two lines.


Two dead men changed the course of my life that fall. One of them I knew and the other I’d never laid eyes on until I saw him in the morgue.

The first was a local PI of suspect reputation. He’d been gunned down near the beach at Santa Teresa. It looked like a robbery gone bad. The other was on the beach six weeks later. He’d been sleeping rough. Probably homeless. No identification. A slip of paper with Millhone’s name and number was in his pants pocket. The coroner asked her to come to the morgue to see if she could ID him.

Two seemingly unrelated deaths, one a murder, the other apparently of natural causes.

But as Kinsey digs deeper into the mystery of the John Doe, some very strange linkages begin to emerge. And before long at least one aspect is solved as Kinsey literally finds the key to his identity. “And just like that,” she says, “the lid to Pandora’s box flew open. It would take me another day before I understood how many imps had been freed, but for the moment, I was inordinately pleased with myself.”

In this multi-layered tale, the surfaces seem clear, but the underpinnings are full of betrayals, misunderstandings, and outright murderous fraud. And Kinsey, through no fault of her own, is thoroughly compromised.

W is for . . . wanderer . . . worthless . . . wronged . . .

W is for wasted.


Love, love, love Sue Grafton and Kinsey Milhone.

JACK IN THE BOX

This is a short story I recently wrote to enter in a contest on "Goodreads" in a group called "Struggling Writers". The rules of the contest included a list of 15 words that must be used in the story. I have put those words in bold lettering for easy finding throughout the story.
The words are: Airplane; Rug; Blue; Rumpled; Peaches; Ruined; Lost; Saved; Torn; Memories; Broken Hearted; Loved; Flowered; Lived; Poetic.

UPDATE!!! I won the contest!!! You can view my short story at GoodReads http://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/1433212-winning-word-bank-story - Or simply read it here since you're already here.
Hope you enjoy.






JACK IN THE BOX

We’d been sitting on the tarmac at L.A.X. for nearly an hour, all because a dead body had fallen out of one of the overhead compartments when we landed.

No one was allowed to exit the airplane until every single passenger and flight crew member had been questioned thoroughly by the L.A.P.D. detective leading the investigation. His name was Gough, Vincent Gough, middle name -- you guessed it – Van. Who would name their kid Vincent Van Gough? Funny, but the first thing I looked for when he stood in the aisle at the front of the plane introducing himself, was his ears. He had both of them. He also happened to be wearing the most obvious rug on top of his head I’d ever seen. It was a cross between Donald Trump and Adolph Hitler, and looked like he’d went swimming in it and just let it dry naturally without combing it. And – it was “Lucille Ball” red. He also had one of those roving eyes. You know the kind I mean, where you aren’t sure which eye to look at when he’s talking to you. Between the eye and hairpiece, I was very distracted when it finally came my turn to be interrogated. I was “witness number 78” out of 217 waiting to be questioned.

“Please state your name and seat number.” Detective Gough said, before I was even settled into one of the two flight attendant rumble seats facing one another.

“Steve Douglas, seat 78-A” I said, as I scrunched into the seat opposite Detective Gough. With both of us sitting facing each other our knees nearly touched. Detective Gough had an electronic tablet roughly the size of a hardback book balanced on his lap taking notes.

“Like the father in My Three Sons?” Gough asked.

That old TV sitcom was before my time but I’d seen reruns on Nick at Night. So I knew who he was talking about.

“Yes.” I replied. “My dad’s name is Oliver Wendle Douglas like Green Acres.” I said joking, but he acted like he didn’t get the joke.

“Mr. Douglas this is a serious matter.” He said sternly.

“Sorry.” I said, although I really wasn’t.

“Now tell me,” he began, “Did you board the flight at its original take off point in Raleigh, North Carolina or did you board at the two-hour layover in Dallas?”

Apparently he’d already been told about the layover in Dallas.

“No I boarded in Raleigh.” I replied.

“I understand the deceased also boarded in Raleigh according to his ticket found in his pants pocket. Do you recall seeing him board the plane in Raleigh?”

“I don’t remember seeing him, but if you say he did I’ll take your word for it.”

“You did get a look at his face when he fell partially out of the overhead compartment didn’t you?”

“Well yes I did.” I said. “It was hard not to. He sprang halfway out like a jack-in-the-box and just sort of bobbled there above the seats.”

“And you were sitting where, in conjunction to the body?” Detective Gough asked, although he already knew the answer.

“I was sitting two rows back on the opposite side of the aisle.”

“So you had an excellent view?”

“Yeah you could say that.”

“So in your own words, tell me what happened.”

“Well, we had just landed, the pilot was still giving his ‘Welcome to sunny Los Angeles – hope you enjoyed your flight’ speech when suddenly out of blue the compartment door flew open and out pops a guy in a rumpled suit.”

“What happened next?” Gough asked.

“Gasps and screams.” I replied. “The old lady sitting next to me was in the process of putting away a small container of peaches she’d half eaten, when Jack popped out, she yelped and threw the opened can of fruit all over me.”

“Is that what those stains are on the front of your pants?” Gough asked, smiling, his eyes looking at my crotch and somewhere over my shoulder at the same time. “I hope they’re not ruined.” He added.

“I’m sure they’ll wash out okay.” I said, squirming a little as he continued looking at my crotch with one of his eyes. I didn’t know if it was the good one or the bad one, but it was creeping me out a little.

“According to the seating chart that was provided to me, the person sitting directly below the deceased was a Miss Hampstead, traveling alone, I see from my notes. Did you happen to recall seeing her seated to your right and two rows up?”

“No not really.” I said. As I replied to his question I leaned to my right in order to look down the aisle to see if I could catch a glimpse of her. What I saw was a pair of gorgeous legs extended out into the aisle wearing a pair of red four-inch heels.

“The reason I’m asking about her,” Gough continued, “is because she apparently boarded in Dallas and the seat she is sitting in was supposed to be occupied by a Mr. D.u.v.e.t. pronounced Do-Vay. Her seat was supposed to be the one you occupied Mr. Douglas. You were supposed to be sitting in first-class and yet you were sitting in coach. Can you tell me why the musical chairs? Why isn’t anyone in their assigned seats? So far, I haven’t located or spoken with this Mr. Duvet. I’m assuming he’ll show up in one of the seats I haven’t gotten to yet. By the way, the deceased’s name is Jason Oglethorpe. Did you know him?”

“No.” I replied, shaking my head.

“So once again, why was everyone sitting in the wrong assigned seats?”

At that point Detective Gough apparently felt a sneeze coming on and reached into his front breast pocket to retrieve a handkerchief. Quickly putting it to his face, he let out a series of the loudest sneezes I’d ever heard. When he finally finished with his sneezing fit, I noticed his toupee had slipped forward a bit and there was now a thick cowlick of it sticking straight up like three-inch bright red horn! Of course he didn’t realize it, and I must admit I almost lost it right then. It was all I could do to refrain from laughter. What made it even funnier was the serious expression Detective Gough maintained on his face. I knew I needed to concentrate on his question so I closed my eyes as if I were recalling the events that led up to the seating arrangements.

“It’s true I was originally sitting in first class.” I said. “But there was a “celebrity” I said using finger quotation marks in the air, “with her two bratty kids up there, and she wouldn’t make an effort to control them. Rather than complaining, which I knew because of her status, wouldn’t do any good, I simply strolled back to coach and found an empty seat and took it. I know it was wrong, and now of course I wish I’d never done it. I did ask the old lady next to me if the seat was saved and she told me it wasn’t.”

I opened my eyes and saw Detective Gough typing my statement into his electronic notebook. When he finished, he said that was all he had for me for the time being and told me I could return to my seat. When I asked which one, he said the one in coach and added, “Please don’t make any more seat switches until I’m though with my investigation. I may want to ask you some more questions. And could you please tell the passenger in the seat next to yours to come on up”

I said I would and promised to behave getting up from the cramped rumble seat I made my way down the aisle to my seat next to Old Lady Peaches . I couldn’t help but stare at Ms. Hampstead, or more so her legs. As I passed by her on the way to my seat, our eyes met and I for a moment I felt as if she were trying to communicate to me telepathically. She smiled as her eyes road up and down my body, stopping only a fraction of a second at front stain on my pants. When I reached my seat and was sitting down, I noticed she was still staring back at me. I swear she pursed her lips and air-kissed in my direction.

“He’s ready for you.” I told the old lady, while keeping my eye on Ms. Hampstead. As soon as she had ambled up the aisle toward Detective Gough, Ms. Legs uh, I mean Ms. Hampstead, got up from her seat and came back to where I sat. “Is this seat taken?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure what to say. I stammered, “Well…uh…no not at the moment…but that detective said we should remain in our seats and not move about.”

“Oh Wally won’t mind.” She said, squeezing between my knees and seat in front of me and plopping down beside me.

“Wally?” I asked.

“Wall-eyed Wally.” She said, nodding toward the front of the cabin.

“Oh of course,” I said, smiling.

“So how’d it go?” she asked, referring to my interrogation.

“It was okay.” I said. “He seemed to be concerned as to why you and I were out of our assigned seats. I told him my excuse. What’s yours?” I asked.

She hesitated before answering. “I’m…let’s say avoiding someone.” She said.

“Do you know the dead guy?” I asked.

“No.” She answered. But something told me she wasn’t being truthful.

“I can’t believe they haven’t removed the body yet.” I said, looking toward Jack-in-the Box, although he was now discretely covered with a blanket provided by one of the flight attendants.

“I guess they’re waiting until we’re all allowed off the plane.” Ms. Hampstead said. “By the way, my name’s Christine, she added, extending her well-manicured nailed hand out to me.

“It’s nice to meet you Christine.” I said, shaking her hand. “I’m Steve. What brings you to L.A.?”

“A modeling job.” She replied.

“You’re a model? I might have guessed.”

“And what about you?” she asked.

“I’m on a business trip.” I said. “I’m a diamond broker.”

Her eyebrows rose slightly. “A girl’s best friend.” She said smiling.

I wastornbetween wanting to get to know this beautiful woman better and running in the opposite direction from someone who might just want to get to know me because of my profession.

“Would you like something to drink or a snack?” One of flight attendants asked, snapping me out of my daze. I hadn’t noticed her and the other attendant pushing carts up the aisle. I had been focused on Christine Hampstead.
“Yes!” I said. “I’ll have a gin and tonic, and you? I asked turning toward Christine. “Make mine vodka and seven if you have it,” she replied.

The attendant made our drinks and passed them to us. “Let me know if you need anything else.” She said. “I apologize for the delay.”

“So who are you avoiding?” I asked when the attendant had moved on.

“What?”

“You said you were avoiding someone.” I reminded her of what she’d said earlier.

“Oh that, just bad memories I guess. Not anyone in particular.”

“But you said someone. When I asked why you had changed seats you said let’s say I was avoiding someone.”

“I just misspoke.” Christine said. I had the feeling she wasn’t going to elaborate.

Just then Old Lady Peaches approached.

“Oh…” she said at the sight of Christine now in her seat.

Christine made apologies and got up to give the seat back. That’s when I noticed it. There was a look that passed between Old Lady Peaches and Christine that told me they knew each other. Something wasn’t right but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Every five or ten minutes someone would file up the aisle toward the front of the cabin to take their turn at being questioned by Detective Gough. Meanwhile I sat pretending to read a book, but in reality I was trying to figure out in my head what connection Christine and the lady sitting next to me had to each other. I didn’t see a resemblance, so I assumed they weren’t mother and daughter. Secret lovers? I shuddered at the thought. Even a guy’s fantasies about lesbian lovers has its limits. The age difference was too much. Simply friends? Could be, but I really didn’t get that impression. Yet there was definitely something between them. I knew in my gut I was right about that. Was the dead guy somehow connected to these to women? If so how? He appeared to be somewhere in age between Old Lady Peaches and Christine. So, he couldbe the boyfriend or husband of either of them. Perhaps he had left one of them broken hearted, and now whichever one it was had gotten her revenge. But whichever one of them did it, how did they manage to get him lifted up and stuffed inside the overhead compartment? I would loved to have seen that.
I looked up from my book realizing I hadn’t turned a page in about ten minutes. Old Lady Peaches was reading a People magazine. I also realized that I was still thinking of her as Old Lady Peaches, it was time I found out what her real name was.

I cleared my throat, “By the way, I’m Steve.” I said, extending my hand. “Steve Douglas, I don’t believe I caught your name.”

She looked up from her magazine and with a sweet little-ole’-lady smile said, “My name is Frances, Frances Holloway. It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Douglas.”

“Please call me Steve.” I said.

Just then, I noticed what appeared to be two more detectives board the plane and confer with Detective Gough. A few minutes later, he and two new detectives made their way down the aisle in our direction. They stopped next to us and without so much as an excuse me ma’am, Detective Gough reached across me placing his hand on top of Frances Old Lady Peaches Holloway’s head and snatched off her grey wig! HOLY MOTHER OF FREAK, OLD LADY PEACHES WAS A MAN!

The next few minutes were total chaos. The person I thought was some old lady next to me grabbed Detective Gough’s arm and jumped up out of his seat scrambling over me in the process. The other two detectives tried to subdue the man. Christine Legs Hampstead jumped out of her seat and tackled the two detectives from behind! There was a big pile of bodies in the aisle and when it was all over, Old Lady Peaches and Christine stood over the three detectives who were now handcuffed and lying face down on the floor. Christine shouted for everyone to remain seated as she held up a badge and announced herself and Old Lady Peaches, as Federal Agents! But I think the most surprising thing happened next. Jack in the Box, the dead guy, suddenly sprang to life and climbed down from the overhead compartment!

“What the heck is going on?” I shouted!

“We’ll explain everything as soon as we get everyone off this plane.” Agent Christine said.

And with that, the airplane doors opened, people were allowed to exit the plane, and more Federal Agents came on board to take charge of the “prisoners”. I was escorted to an airport lounge by Agents Christine Hampstead and Frank Holloway for a full explanation of what had occurred.

Agent Holloway had, by then, changed out of his Flowered dress and into grey slacks and a crisp white shirt and tie.

“Please sit down Mr. Douglas. We apologize for the circumstances but everything we did was necessary to catch the jewelry theft ring. We were following a Mr. Duvet across county because he was one of the thieves. He was following you and was about to dispose of you and steal the diamonds you’re carrying.”

“How do you know about the diamonds?” I asked.

“Believe me, we’ve been working on this theft ring for quite some time and know a lot more than we are able to say.” Agent Holloway said.

Agent Hampstead continued. “We couldn’t let Duvet kill you so we apprehended him in Dallas. He was to meet with his partners here in L.A. when the plane landed, but as you can see the plan changed. We didn’t know exactly who was meeting with Duvet, so we created a scenario where we could get the thieves to board the airplane looking for Duvet. The pilots were notified of what was going on and cooperated with us by pretending to have a dead body on board. This plan went into effect before we left Dallas. We knew that once we landed and word had gotten out at L.A.X. that we had an apparent homicide on board, the thieves would attempt to find out if it was their contact and if he had acquired the diamonds. Sure enough, enter – Detective Vincent Van Gough. He pretended to be the detective in charge not knowing we were already on to him. We couldn’t move on him yet until we had his cohorts too. When they boarded the plane we knew it was time to make our move.”

“I must say though,” Agent Holloway broke in, “You threw a wrench in our plan when you decided to switch seats. With you up front in first class, we could keep you safe, but your unexpected movement caused us concern.”

“I had moved from my seat next to Agent Holloway to take the seat of Duvet.” Agent Christina Hampstead said. “We didn’t want anyone opening the overhead where Agent Oglethorpe was. So I sat below him as a diversion. We knew when Duvet’s accomplices boarded the plane they would want to ID the body to see if it was their contact. That’s why we let the phony Detective Gough find Agent Oglethorpe’s wallet minus his badge and Federal Agent I.D.” We knew it would thoroughly confuse the fake Detective Gough and he would start searching the plane for Duvet or You Mr. Douglas.”

“When Agent Hampstead moved to Duvet’s vacant seat, and you came looking for another place to sit, you just happened to sit next to me.” said Agent Holloway. “I guess somehow, Gough figured out I wasn’t really a little old lady and that’s when he came back and snatched my wig off. You could say that it was a case of poetic justice though, no one was who they appeared to be and turnabout’s fair play.”

“The important thing is everyone lived through it.” Agent Hampstead said. “The theft ring is now in custody.”

The door behind me opened and in walked Jack in the Box himself. He was carrying a black velvet box.

“Mr. Douglas, I believe these are yours.” He said, handing the box to me.

I opened it and there were the diamonds I thought were locked safely in my luggage.

“How did you get these?” I asked.

“Those are the real ones.” Agent Oglethorpe replied. “The one’s you have are fake. We couldn’t take a chance the crooks would outsmart us and get away the diamonds.”

“But when ?-” I started to asked.

“Before you left Raleigh, North Carolina.” Oglethorpe said.

“I’ll be damned” was all I could say.



The End

Will Barnes & Noble Follow the Path of Borders?

In a word...Of Course! Okay, that's two words, but you understand where I'm heading with this don't you?

Barnes & Noble has lately been suffering in various areas of its business, leading some to question if the nation’s largest book retailer will soon follow in the defunct Borders Group’s footsteps.

If asked someone who works at a Barnes & Noble book store, if they think eBooks and eReaders will eventually become the downfall of Barnes & Noble, they'll say no, that book sales are still strong. But I beg to differ. Just take a look around a Barnes & Noble store when you walk in the front door and what's the first thing you see? A Nook or Kindle Reader display and salesperson right there at the front door! Now glance around the store and you'll notice there doesn't seem to be as many book shelves as there used to be. Instead, you'll see huge sections and rows of games, toys, puzzles, and many items that aren't books! Why do you think that is? I can tell you. It's because people aren't buying printed books as much as they used to. Why....because of the ability to stay at home and download a book to their eReader.

Barnes & Noble employees and management can deny it all they want, and probably will all the way to the unemployment line.

I say if you're going to sell something right at your front door that is going to eventually put you out of business, you deserve to go out of business.

Maybe in the end, we'll see the independent book stores that were forced out of business by the giant book selling chains, return. Let's hope so.

This is a sci-fi short story I've written. It is my first attempt at a short story and first attempt at sci-fi. I hope you will read it and let me know what you think.

Jim




The Draneg of Need

Aah woke with a start as she always seemed to do lately. With a sudden intake of breath her red and white marbled-colored eyes snapped opened. Her pearl-colored skin almost iridescent felt cold. Her forehead beaded with blue perspiration, she lay quiet for moment gradually taking in her surroundings. She had been dreaming again. It was always the same dream; the one where she and her mate Om were running for their lives. Running from what? – She didn’t know. The dream never revealed that part. But never-the-less the dream struck Aah with a terror that reached to the very depth of her soul. That is, assuming she had a soul.

Aah and Om, are the inhabitants of the planet Eris, the largest of what are referred to as dwarf planets. Located in the Kuiper-belt, Eris is much like Pluto, but slightly less reddish-yellow. Eris has two moons, and it is visible in the constellation Cetus. It is about nine billion miles away from the sun. On a highly elliptical 560-years orbit, Eris at times sweeps in as close to the sun as four and a half billion miles away.

But Aah and Om in fact know very little about their world. They know even less about themselves. They have no recorded history. They are members of a society known as The Common , and live in a region of Eris known as The Draneg of Need. They are a peaceful race of highly developed humanoid figures; highly developed in the sense that they are aware that everything is energy, including their thoughts. And by their thoughts everything is created. Whatever one thinks, one manifests. They are able to control their environment and to create whatever surroundings they wish. They have created a Utopian world but one that comes with a great price; that price being – they must never question what lies beyond their region, and are forbidden to travel outside The Draneg of Need. They are not even allowed to ponder whether they are alone on Eris or if inhabited worlds exist in other places in the galaxy. This one unbreakable rule was created for their own good, they have been told. And no one would ever dare go against the demands of the Council of Good and Evil. It is this Council of Good and Evil that makes the rules and enforces severe punishment to anyone who disobeys.

It is made up of Arogons or “Gods” who rule over The Draneg of Need. The society of the Common believe in the duality of all things. There can be no beauty without ugliness, no right without wrong, short without tall, good without evil, therefore the Council of Good and Evil must be balanced in accordance with the universal laws. The Council is made up of twelve Arogons – six good, six evil.

Aah got up from her bed pod and went into the sani-room to wash her face. The cold water felt good against her skin. She toweled her face as she looked at her reflection in the looking-back. It was early and she knew Om would already be deeply engrossed in his textology. In a world where one can manifest anything simply by thinking it, and be, have or do anything they want, Om chose textology as a vocation.

Om loved being a textologist and would wake before dawn each morning, prepare himself a breakfast of toast and jam and a pot of hot jomogo and settle himself in his textology room to work on his latest k-nook. He wrote science fiction about worlds unimaginable. Worlds with strange characters who lived in cities, farms, small towns and villages, and they sometimes lived in strange dwellings where often many different families would live in the same building. They labored every day at something called occupations, a very strange world Om had made up. They were paid wages for providing many kinds of services. They went to something called schools where they learned about their species’ origins in something called history class. The most far-fetched ideas of Om’s textology was the fact that his characters had no control over most events in their daily lives, and even though his characters were considered intelligent, they used only a very small portion of their brains which left them only slightly more intelligent than the creatures they kept as what they called pets. And in some cases, they weren’t as smart as their pets. This often brought a touch of humor to Om’s k-nooks.
Even though Om’s k-nooks were science fiction and totally the result of his vivid imagination as a textologist, he on more than one occasion, found himself called before the Arogons of the Council of Good and Evil to answer questions as to where he got his ideas. All he could say was his ideas came from the deepest recesses of his mind as a textologist of fiction. But Om knew he had to be careful. Even he had to wonder at times where his ideas came from. And frankly…the possibility frightened him.
Om looked up from his texting to find Aah standing in the doorway.

“Good morning.” He said, smiling at her. “Did you sleep well?”

“Not really.” Aah replied.

“Not the dream again?” asked Om.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“You really should see a doctor. Perhaps he can prescribe something to help you sleep.”

“No, that’s not what I need Om. I need to find out what this recurring dream means. I have to know.”

Aah was starting to get upset, her voice rising in fear. “Please, won’t you help me? You are the only one who can. You are the only one I trust.” She said.

Aah was now starting to cry and Om took her in his arms.

“I’m not sure what I can do.” He replied. “What is it you want me to do?”

Aah looked into Om’s green and white marbled eyes and said. “I want you to go to the Council of Good and Evil. You’ve been before them many times. They know you well. Surely they can tell you what my dream means.”

“You can’t be serious!” Om said. “You really expect me to go to the Council and simply ask them to divulge to me, the meaning of my mate’s dream? Aah I can’t do it! First of all, they wouldn’t tell me, and secondly, suppose your dreams are not meant to be understood. What if…..and bear with me for just a moment, but what if your dreams are of a “forbidden nature”? You know as well as I do what would happen if anyone challenged the Arogons to reveal any knowledge that is forbidden.”

“Do I?” Aah said defiantly. “Does anyone really know what the Arogons would do if questioned about forbidden knowledge? No, no one does because no one had ever tried it!”

“Aah, you must stop this! We shouldn’t even be having this conversation! The Arogons have ways of knowing everything about everyone. Now please, no more of this blasphemous talk! I beg of you to forget about this.”

Om took her in his arms again. “Aah I love you.” He said.

“And I you.” Aah replied.

Om went about his business of textology for the remainder of the morning. Aah completed some menial tasks around the house before tending to her walk-in terrarium around mid-day. Aah loved spending time with her plants. The inside of the terrarium literally glowed with the vibrant colors of Ashalods, Cryonics, Tentaquariums, and hundreds more beautiful flowers and plants. The aroma inside the terrarium was intoxicating. It was such a pleasure to be inside the terrarium that there were days when Aah would spend the entire afternoon absorbed in caring for her plants.

This particular day however, Aah could not get the conversation she had with Om that morning out of her head. Perhaps Om was right. Perhaps she should just let it go. It was in fact just a dream. Or was it? Did it really have some hidden meaning? Or was she just being silly? And why on Eris would she ever think of trying to convince Om to go to the Arogons for help? What would ever possess her to think the Arogons would bother with something so trivial as her dreams?

As Aah was trimming the thorns from a Cataberry plant, a knock at the entrance to the terrarium startled her. There was an elderly gentleman standing in the doorway.

“Excuse me for the intrusion.” The man said. “I wonder if I might trouble you for some directions. You see I am a traveler and have wandered off my course.”

Aah immediately thought this was an odd statement as anyone living in The Draneg of Need would not be lost, and as everyone knows “traveling” outside the region is forbidden.

“What do you mean you’ve wandered off course?” Aah asked. “Where are you from and where are you going?”

The man removed his five-cornered hat; “My name is Sha…Burton Sha” he said. “As I say I’m…

“Burton Sha!” Aah interrupted him. “How odd you would have two names. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Where did you say you’re from?”

The man smiled. “I didn’t.” he said. “But…”

Aah interrupted him again. “What is it you do?” She asked.

“I’m not sure I understand the question madam.”

“You said you are a traveler. What does that mean? Where do you travel? Why are you traveling? Aah persisted?

“Such inquisitry.” The man said. “If I may be truthful…” he added.

“Please do Burton Sha.” Aah said.

“You see,” he began “I am a traveler and I’ve come to help you.”

“Help me?” Aah interjected. “I’m sorry…go on.”

“I know about…” he cleared he throat… “I know about your problem.” He said.
“Your…dreams.”

Aah dropped the pruning shears she had been holding all this time.

“How could you?” She asked, incredulously. “I’ll ask you again sir, who are you!”

Burton Sha raised his hand in an effort to calm Aah. “I assure you,” he said. “I mean you no harm. As I say, I’m here to help you.”

“Now if you would be so kind as to offer me some cyrillian tea, we shall begin.” Burton Sha said.

Aah didn’t know quite what to say, but she took Burton Sha’s hat, led him out of the terrarium and into the main house where she began preparing the tea.



Aah found herself sitting on the white contoured recliner in the den of her home, in a completely relaxed state of being. Burton Sha sat across from her in the black and white striped zoopa leathered chair, sipping his tea, his legs crossed in a comfortable position. Aah was not in what she felt was a hypnotic state, but she did feel as though she was so relaxed that she wouldn’t be able to lift her arm if she wanted to.

Burton Sha was speaking in a low soothing tone. “Now Aah,” he said, “I am offering you the opportunity to discover the meaning of your dreams and to learn more than you could ever conceive. As I told you I’m here to help you, but in order to do so, you must trust me. You do trust me don’t you?”

She had no reason to trust this stranger, and yet she heard herself saying “Yes, I trust you.”

Aah had lost track of time, of how long Burton Sha had been in her house. It seemed like only a few minutes ago that he arrived, but she knew she’d had time to make tea and now she and Burton Sha were sitting in her den talking as though they’d been friends forever.

“What if I told you that your dream is a portent of things to come?” Burton Sha asked, setting his cup of tea on the acrylic side table and clasping his hands together. “And…” he continued, “they are a vision of that which has already come to pass.”

Aah didn’t say anything for a moment, contemplating what Burton Sha had just said.

“If you had a choice to know everything or forever being kept in the dark, which would you choose?” he asked.

“I would of course choose to know everything.” Aah answered. “What did you mean when you said my dreams are about what’s to come and what has already happened?” She asked.

Burton Sha simply smiled.

“All your questions will be answered in due time Aah. May I call you Aah?”

“Yes of course.” Aah replied.

“Now,” Burton Sha began, “Tell me everything you can about your dreams. Leave nothing out. First of all tell me how long you’ve been having these dreams.”

“I’m not sure how long I’ve been having them.” Aah said. “I suppose it’s been about a cycle of the moons, perhaps a little longer.”

“It’s always the same scene. Om and I are out for a pleasant evening stroll when the sky becomes dark and heavy grey cumulus rolls in. Each of us try to revert the conditions back to the wonderful way it was only moments before, but we are unable to do so. I know that sounds hard to believe, but we seem to have no control over the atmosphere.”
Aah paused in her narrations, visualizing the event in her mind’s eye.

“Go on.” Said Burton Sha.

“The next thing that happens is Om grabs the sides of his head and he appears to be in excruciation pain. He falls to his knees in agony and there is nothing I can do to help him. He is shouting “Make it Stop!” repeating that over and over.”

“But you are not experiencing any symptoms?” Burton Sha asked.

“No, nothing other than fear.” said Aah. “I am screaming and crying and when Om is finally able to stand again we begin running. I don’t know why. I don’t know what we are running from, or to where we are running. We just know that we have to get away from there.”

Burton Sha smiled and asked. “Where do you run? I mean, you can’t very well escape the atmospheric surroundings can you?”

Aah lowered her eyes as if she were ashamed by her answer. “No, I suppose not.” She said. “But fear makes you do things that aren’t always rational.”

“I’m going to ask you something Aah, and I want you to be perfectly honest with me.”

“Okay.”

“Are you happy?”

Aha looked surprised by the question. “Yes I’m quite happy.” She said. “Why would you ask that?”

“I mean are you completely happy with every aspect of your life?” Burton Sha pressed.

“Of course I am, what a silly question.”

“And you wouldn’t change anything?”

“I’m quite sure if there is something I wanted to change I would simply do it. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Yes why wouldn’t you? Perhaps you can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Aah asked. “Change whatever I want in my life? How ridiculous.”

“Perhaps you’re losing control of your ability to manifest whatever you want.”

“That’s impossible!”

“Is it?”

“This is nonsense.” Aah said, clearly getting agitated by Burton Sha’s line of questioning. “I thought you were here to help me understand my dream, not make up wild propositions that we both know are impossible.”

“You and Om have been giving a magnificent opportunity, and you don’t even realize it.”

“I don’t understand.” Aah said.

“My point exactly, but you will.” Burton Sha replied.

“So what are you saying? What does all of this mean and how does it relate to my dreams?”

“I think it is time for us to go.” Burton Sha said.

“Go where?” Aah asked.

“To where all of your answers lie, to the forbidden lands outside The Draneg of Need.”

Aah wanted to protest Burton Sha’s suggestion that they travel outside The Draneg of Need, but she didn’t. She knew she should have protested, but she couldn’t. Not if she was to find enlightenment somewhere out there. Enlightenment meant she would know the meaning of her terrifying dreams. It would mean she would learn why it was forbidden to travel outside The Draneg of Need. She would finally come to know what was out there.

But what would Om say? She knew very well what he would say. He would be outraged. He wouldn’t let her go. Even though she felt she was doing this for both of them. She and Om would be the first of their kind to know perhaps how they came to be here, what purpose they served, and why they were kept in the dark about their past. There was no question about it, she had to go.

“How long will we be gone?” She asked.

“Time is irrelevant.” Burton Sha replied. “A journey of several cycles of the moons can seem like only moment. And a moment can seem an eternity.”

Standing in the center of the room, Burton Sha extended his hand to Aah. She placed her small delicate hand in his, closed her eyes as she was instructed, and so began their journey.






She had never seen one before, but somehow Aah knew what a mountain range was and what one looked like. How strange to be looking at one now. But that wasn’t the strangest part. Aah was not simply seeing a mountain range for the first time in her life; she was viewing it from above. It was as if she were flying like a bird, but she didn’t seem to be moving through the air, but was hovering above, looking down at the land below her.

“How is this possible?” she asked Burton Sha. “Are we truly flying?”

Burton Sha smiled. “Anything is possible.”

“Are there people living down there?” asked Aah.

“There is.”

“Will we be visiting them?”

“I’m afraid not.” Burton Sha replied. “It wouldn’t be safe.”

“But why?” Aah questioned.

“There is magic there. The people on the far side of the mountain dabble in…let’s just say…unnatural powers. Even the race of people living on this side of the mountains avoid the “Others”.

And those people are great warriors of the sea and land. They fear nothing. But they know there is something very strange about the “Others”. And what they do not understand, they stay away from.”

“Is it the “Others” that I fear in my dreams?”

“No, it is not the “Others”.

“The warriors of the sea and land then?”

“No.”

“Then why have you shown this to me? What connection does it have to me?”

“All will be revealed in time. Let us continue.”

In the next instant, Aah and Burton Sha were beneath the sea. Yet they could both breathe and speak. They were standing on the outskirts of a great city.

According to Burton Sha, the Arogons of old divided the lands so that each Arogon might own a lot. One of the Arogons was bequeathed the island that this city stood on. This Arogon fell in love with Cleito, the daughter of Evenor who is described as the ancestor of the kings who ruled this legendary island. According to the account given, Evenor was among the original inhabitants of this island. He lived with his wife Leucippe on a low hill in the center of the island, about fifty stadia from the sea. The couple had one daughter, Cleito. When Cleito reached marriageable age, her parents died, and the Arogon slept with her and she became mother of five pairs of twin sons. Her oldest son, became the first king of this city, with the other sons as subordinate governors.”

“This Arogon carved the mountain into a palace and enclosed it with three circular moats of increasing width, varying from one to three stadia and separated by rings of land proportional in size. The people of this city then built bridges northward from the mountain, making a route to the rest of the island. They dug a great canal to the sea, and alongside the bridges carved tunnels into the rings of rock so that ships could pass into the city around the mountain; they carved docks from the rock wall surrounding each of the city’s rings. The walls were constructed of red, white and black rock, quarried from the moats; and were covered with brass, tin and the precious metal orichalcum.”
“Later a war took place between those outside the Pillars of Hercules at the Strait of Gebraltar and those who dwelt within them. The people of this city had conquered everyone around them and subjected them to slavery.”

“But at a later time there occurred portentous earthquakes and floods, and one grievous day and night befell them, when the whole body of warriors was swallowed up by the earth, and the island and this city was also swallowed up by the sea and vanished never to be seen again.”

“But there are people living here now. How is that possible?” Aah asked.

“The people of this city did not perish at its sinking, but instead were adapted to their new existence below the sea. They are known as Syrens. They are never to be allowed access to Landwalkers again. However it has come to pass that one of theirs has broken this rule and has fallen into a forbidden love with one of the Landwalkers.”

“Then my dreams must be about them and their punishment for falling in love. It is they who are running in fear in my dream. Is it not?”

“No,” replied Burton Sha, “All will be revealed in time.”

Just as before, Aah was suddenly transported to another scene. Now she and Burton Sha were sitting at a small table outside in a plaza setting. There were people sitting at other tables having drinks and engaged in casual chatting. Aah had a large yellow and orange drink sitting in front of her and as she reached for it, she caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye. When she turned to look, whatever she’d seen was gone.

“So tell me,” Burton Sha said. “Why are you interested in other worlds outside your own?”

“What do you mean?” Aah asked, taking a sip of her drink.

“Well something caused you to be more than curious as to what lies outside your own world.”

“Of course it has. You know very well it is my dreams that cause me distress and the dreams seem to come from somewhere ‘out there’.”

“Why do you think they come from ‘out there’ as you say?”

“In my dream, Om and I are running scared from something. The world around us seems dark and cloudy as it a terrible storm is brewing. There is no beauty around us as there is normally. Nothing is familiar around us, like we are someplace else.”

“But you have had thoughts before the dreams began about what lay beyond The Draneg of Need.

Is that not true?”

“I suppose from time to time I’ve wondered about that.”

“But why? When you live in such a society as you do, why be concerned about what lies beyond?”

“I think it’s only natural one would wish to know what else might be out there.”

“Are you not happy with your existence?”

“Of course I am. I don’t understand this line of questioning. You came to me and offered to help find an explanation to my dreams. It was you who said we should travel outside The Draneg of Need.”

“Yes, and you accepted that quite readily. Perhaps too quickly I might add.”

Aah started to reply to Burton Sha’s insinuation that it was she who led them to where they were now, when she caught sight of another shadow in the distance over Burton Sha’s shoulder. It was there only for a fleeting instant before it disappeared.

Burton Sha noticed her reaction.

“You see them don’t you?”

“I…I thought I saw something, but apparently not.” Aah replied.

“No, you did see something. It’s the Shadow People.”

Aah felt a shiver run down her spine.

“What are Shadow People?” She asked.

“According to legend, Chaos has often been interpreted as a moving, formless mass from which the cosmos and the gods originated. From Chaos came forth a son Erebus the Arogon who represented the personification of darkness and black Night; and of Night were born Aether and Day, whom she conceived and bore from union in love with Erebus.”

“So this Chaos is feminine and gives birth to an Arogon named Erebus. Then she and her ‘son’ in turn give birth to Aether, an Arogon who represents light and day? So what has all this to do with these so-called Shadow People?”

“Nyx is the primordial goddess of the night, a shadowy figure who rules over the shadows created by the union of light and darkness. She is feared by the Shadow People. They live in darkness – avoiding the light. That is why you see them fleeting for only a moment. Shadow World is a place of darkness. A place you wouldn’t want to live.”

“I’m beginning to understand why you are showing me these other worlds.” Aah said. “You are trying to show me how good I have it in The Draneg of Need.”
Burton Sha smiled.

“We have another world to explore.” He said.

The next world involved a species that was a highly technologically advanced civilization. Burton Sha explained that this species were the remnants of a long-dead society that developed Nano technology that ‘repairs’ them so they can never die. They appear to be mechanical in their movements, stiff and android-like.

“The Arogon Chronos, the personification of time, created this world because here, time means nothing.” Burton Sha said. “It is a world that has been given the possibility of never ending, and without the necessity of repopulating. While it could be considered an advanced civilization, it is as you can see, a cold and emotionless society. But…they never die.”

Suddenly something occurred to Aah. Death…it was a concept she didn’t understand. She suddenly realized she had never seen death. Not in people, nor animals, or even plant life. Nothing she’d ever known had died. How can that be? She thought. Somehow she had knowledge of death, which was unexplainable, because she couldn’t remember ever seeing it.
A vision of her dream popped into her head. She and Om were running from something. Could that something be death?

Burton Sha began to laugh. He knew she was realizing her fate. Soon she would know the meaning of her dreams. He had done his job. Again he laughed… and laughed… and laughed.




Aah slowly opened her eyes. She found herself lying in her bed pod. Om was gently patting her forehead with a cool cloth. She tried to sit up but Om insisted she like still.
“You’ve been asleep for quite a long time.” He said. “I was worried you might never awaken.”

“What do you mean I’ve been asleep? Have I been here all along?”

Om smiled. “Of course you have. Where do you think you were?”… Where do you think you were … where do you think … where do you … his words were echoing inside her head as they faded away. It was not only his words that were fading; it was Om himself that seemed to be fading into nothingness. Om was disappearing before her eyes!

Ah clenched her eyes tightly shut. When she opened them again she was lying on a stone block of marble. Above her, seated in a semi-circle were twelve men with white flowing beards, dressed in robes. She had never seen them before, but she knew who they were. They were the Arogons of the Council of Good and Evil. Then she noticed one of them sitting sixth from the end on the right that she did recognize. It was Burton Sha behind the beard. He had a slight smile on his face, as did the five sitting to his left. Aah surmised these six must be the Arogons of Evil. She then glanced at the remaining Arogons and saw that they were not smiling, but had looks of sadness on their faces.

“What have you to say for yourself?” An omnipotent voice demanded, that seemed to come from no particular Arogon but filled the room almost telepathically. “Why have you disobeyed the Council’s command that no one is to ever travel outside The Draneg of Need? Have you not been given the perfect world? One in which you and your mate have been allowed to create for yourself? Why would you want more when you had everything?”

“It was not that I wanted more. It started with a dream that frightened me. I was only trying to find the meaning of it.” She looked over at Burton Sha. “It was he,” she said, pointing at him, “that tempted me with knowledge of my dream’s meaning and of what lay outside The Draneg of Need. I only wanted to become enlightened where I was ignorant and to understand the Arogon’s great purpose of the Common.”

Once again a disembodied voice filled the room. “You have disappointed us. By your betrayal of our rule against travel outside The Draneg of Need, you have shown a desire to search for something better than you had, a dissatisfaction with your paradise.”

“But that’s not true!” Aah tried to protest. “I would not have traveled had it not been for the one who came to me as Burton Sha. I was tempted by him!” She pointed again at Burton Sha.

“Silence!” The voice commanded. “You let yourself be tempted and were shown worlds outside The Draneg of Need although you knew it was forbidden. But because of your dreams you began to wonder what else there was outside your world that may have been causing you distress. Your desire to know what lay beyond your world resulted in you being tested to see if you would indeed seek such knowledge. In your defense, we will concede the dream you were having was not supposed to happen. It was a memory you were not supposed to have. A memory of your very distant past. We know this because we were there at the beginning. We sat like a dove with our wings spread over the dark emptiness and made it come to life.”

Aah sat silently listening to the Arogons as they explained the meaning of life, and just whrere she and her mate Om fit into the grand scale of things.

“Once billions of years ago, one of us came up with the idea of creating a world for a species known as man. That Arogon provided the perfect world, but man, in his greed, ended up destroying that world.”

“This time around the Arogons got together and challenged each other to each create a different world. The Arogon who first created the doomed world, now tried to re-create it. Only this time he let the inhabitants themselves create the world around them by their ability to manifest through their thoughts. He wanted to see if things would turn out different this time if they were allowed to create their own world.”

“Your Draneg of Need, was created and actually inhabited by only two people, called Om and Aah. But you did not know this. Your whole world is a creation of your own minds. For even you – Aah and your mate Om, are nothing more than vibrational energy in the form of a thought of an Arogon. In reality you don’t exist as sentient beings. In meditation, Om is the sound often chanted, but it is not just a sound or vibrational chant, nor is it just a symbol.”

“It is the entire cosmos, whatever one can see, touch, hear, and feel. Morever, it is all that is within your perception and all that is beyond your perception. It is the core of our very existence. If you think of Om only as a sound, a technique or a symbol of the Divine, you will miss it altogether. Om is the mysterious cosmic energy that is the basic substance of all things and all the beings in the entire universe. It is an eternal song of the Divine. It is continuously resounding in silence on the background of everything that exists.”

“Aah”, the Arogon continued. “is the sound associated with the energy of Anahata – The chakra for love, forgiveness, generosity, and compassion towards self and others.”
“Your only forbidden act this time was that you could not know of your past, because your past had been a failed experiment. Because you have travelled outside The Draneg of Need and have seen the existence of other worlds, we can no longer sustain your existence as you once knew it. You were to stay within the confines of The Draneg of Need, a Utopian world perfect in every way much the way the first Draneg of Need was. Only then the letter of its name were jumbled and it was called The Garden of Eden.”
“Then, just as now, you let yourself be tempted. And by your actions, you brought death upon you and your mate and all mankind. You and your mate were cast out of The Garden of Eden. And so it shall be once again.”

As these last few words were spoken, Aah felt herself changing. She looked at her hand and saw that it was fading just as Om had faded before her eyes. Her existence was returning to its true element. Soon she would be nothing but a void.




Epilog:
Everything in the universe is energy
and in a state of vibration, including us.
Life is sound and sound brings life to earth.




…And just as it was in the beginning there was nothing but void. Yet even in the nothingness there was energy. There would always be energy. And the energy vibrated with sound. And the sound was Om … and the sound was Aah.

Jim Jordan Gives Poetry Reading at School Alumni Reunion

May 16, 2013 I was invited to give a poetry reading at the Gans, Oklahoma School Alumni Reunion. While I didnt' graduate from Gans High School, I did attend there in the 8th grade in 1967-68. Due to the wonders of Facebook, I have reconnected with some of my former classmates and was asked by someone on the Reunion Committee if I would present a reading of some of my poetry to this year's reunion. It was an honor to get the chance to share some of my work as a writer with them. I would like to thank my classmate and dear friend Karen Brant-Hibdon for the invitation. I had a great time.

Texas Woman Self-Publishes, Hits Best-Seller Lists

By JAMIE STENGLE | Associated Press – Tue, Apr 16, 2013 SULPHUR SPRINGS, Texas (AP) — After a feverish month of inspiration, Colleen Hoover had finally fulfilled her dream of writing a book. With family and friends asking to read the emotional tale of first love, the married mother of three young boys living in rural East Texas and working 11-hour days as a social worker decided to digitally self-publish on Amazon, where they could download it for free for a week. "I had no intentions of ever getting the book published. I was just writing it for fun," said Hoover, who uploaded "Slammed" a year ago in January. Soon after self-publishing, people she didn't know were downloading the book — even after it was only available for a fee. Readers began posting reviews and buzz built on blogs. Missing her characters, she self-published the sequel, "Point of Retreat," a month later. By June, both books hit Amazon's Kindle top 100 best-seller list. By July, both were on The New York Times best-seller list for e-books. Soon after, they were picked up by Atria Books, a Simon & Schuster imprint. By fall, she had sold the movie rights. "I wasn't expecting any of this at all. And I'm not saying I don't like it, but it's taken a lot of getting used to," said the 33-year-old Hoover, who quit her job last summer to focus on her career as an author. Hoover is both a story of self-published success in the digital age and of the popularity of so-called "New Adult" books, stories featuring characters in their late teens and early 20s. Others in the genre include Jamie McGuire's "Beautiful Disaster" and J. Lynn's "Wait for You." The novels, which often have explicit material, are seen by publishers as a bridge between young adult novels and romance novels. "In a nutshell, they're stories of characters in their formative year, when everything is new and fresh," said Amy Pierpont, editorial director of the Hachette Book Group's "Forever" imprint, where "New Adult" best sellers include Jessica Sorensen and J.A. Redmerski. When Hoover finished her third book, "Hopeless," in December, she initially turned down an offer from Atria and decided to digitally self-publish again. By January, that book too was a New York Times best-seller and she signed that month with Atria to publish the print version, but kept control of the electronic version. The paperback is set to come out in May. In February, Atria bought the digital and paperback rights to two upcoming books from Hoover: "This Girl," the third installment in the "Slammed" series, set for release digitally later this month, and "Losing Hope," a companion novel to "Hopeless" to be published digitally in July. Just last week, Hoover announced on her blog a new deal with Atria for two books to be released next year. Johanna Castillo, vice president and senior editor at Atria, said she learned about Hoover while perusing book blogs. Checking out Hoover's blog that details not only her burgeoning writing career but also her day-to-day life, Castillo became enchanted. Around the same time, Hoover's agent, Jane Dystel, sent Hoover's books to Castillo. "I read them and I liked them and we moved forward very quickly," said Castillo, who adds, "The voice that she has to connect with readers is very special." In a June post Hoover poignantly writes about being able to move from a single-wide mobile home to "a REAL house. A house with doors that work and an air conditioner that cools and electricity that doesn't shut off if you run two electronics at the same time." "Seven months ago, we were struggling to make ends meet," she writes in the blog post. "Now, things are finally coming together and it's all because of you guys. Every single person that spent a few bucks to buy a book that I wrote deserves a big THANK YOU from my whole family." Hoover says a confluence of events led to her writing "Slammed," which tells the story of an 18-year-old girl who moves to a new state with her mother and brother after the sudden death of her father, falls for their 21-year-old neighbor who has a love for slam poetry and soon makes a discovery that means they cannot be together. Inspiration for the book came from several directions. Hoover had recently gone to a concert of her favorite band, The Avett Brothers, and a line from one of their songs — "Decide what to be and go be it" — kept replaying in her head. Then one of her sons got a part in a community theater production that left her tinkering on her laptop during rehearsals, which included looking up videos of people performing slam poetry. That in turn led to her trying to find a book with a main character who was a slam poet. When she couldn't find such a book, it occurred to her that she could write one herself. "When I sat down and wrote the first paragraph I was like 'Oh, I can go with this,'" Hoover said. "I didn't do an outline. I didn't do anything. I just wrote sentence by sentence, not knowing where the story was going." Even after being able to quit her job and signing with Atria, Hoover said it wasn't until a book signing she organized with other indie authors at a Chicago hotel in the fall that her popularity began to sink in. "I remember coming down the stairs and there was this huge line with hundreds of people and someone goes, 'There's Colleen Hoover,' and they all start freaking out," she said. "That was I think the first moment that it hit me that this was way bigger than I thought." Hoover grew up in rural East Texas, was married with a baby by the age of 20 and got a degree in social work from Texas A&M-Commerce. She worked as an investigator with Child Protective Services before returning to school to get her qualifications to teach special education, which she did for a year before returning to school again to get a minor in infant nutrition and going to work for the federal Women, Infants and Children program, known as WIC. Maryse Black, a book blogger who has mostly read and reviewed indie books in the last few years, was among Hoover's early fans. Black reviewed "Slammed" a couple months after Hoover uploaded it, asking readers if they were in the mood for "a book that will hook you from the first few lines, make you smile, make you laugh, make you ABSOLUTELY fall in love, and then sigh and sigh and sigh again." "She's 100 percent real in her writing," Black said in a recent phone interview. "I feel like I can relate to her characters. I can relate to their situations and I can relate to their reactions. I can see it actually happening as I'm reading the book it plays out in my head like a seamless movie." On a recent blog post Hoover shared with her readers what she called "a really depressing blast from the past" — a MySpace post from 2006 she recently came across in which she writes that although she's certain she "was born to write a book," she believes that she never will. She writes that she's researched whether it would be worth it to even try and decided that with the low odds of ever getting a publisher or being able to support herself writing, she shouldn't even try. She writes on her blog, "Good thing I didn't listen to myself. It also says a helluva a lot about how much the publishing industry has changed." ___ Online: Colleen Hoover's blog, www.colleenhoover.com